


Gone

by telepathy



Category: John/Paul - Fandom, Lennon/McCartney - Fandom, McLennon - Fandom, The Beatles
Genre: Angst, Dark, Depressing, M/M, M/M Sex, Sex, Suicide
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-11-26
Updated: 2013-06-21
Packaged: 2017-11-19 14:26:09
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Major Character Death
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,942
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/574230
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/telepathy/pseuds/telepathy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Paul has come to the end of the line with John...and himself.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Very sensitive subject matter. Please do not read/review if offended. Not my intention with this one. Originally titled "Stars Falling Down."

"Johnny, listen to me...c'mon mate, just this once? I promise."

†

My mind is open. In an endless space I hear words too painful to say aloud. I know it's time now; I have found reflection. I have discovered courage enough.

How long I've been on this forgotten road — acting as a loneliest bygone might do? I've only been lead deeper into the nether. There are no curves and no, there is no end, this much is clear.

Although numbed to the bone, somehow I was able enough to go one; through thick atmospheres I waded, always with hope for John to find the passage straight to me. To help him understand—to see earnestly.

The reasons why I'm choosing to take me own life are here; shadows are not meant to last throughout our longest of days. These things are why I am as much to blame as anyone – as much as he. But in the end, it is me choice, me act alone that will define everything.

†

Early spring, 1966: nearly 24 years old now, I notice seasonal changes from behind a studio window. Earthy aromas permeated; living proof of high-contrast growth outdoors come by way of very real, very vivid colors. Yet despite this emergence of new life, inside of me there is a lingering winter. Cold and frozen solid from many weathered years of neglect.

Don't misunderstand me–I've known passion and love, respect and reverence, and while this last one is most unsettling, I've felt the people's worship. Me young, boyish face is easy on the eyes while me words are smart and charming. I exude confidence – yet this is merely a mask of completion worn only skin deep. The world doesn't see me, not the real me anyway. The passersby glimpse only a facade; a clever curtain that hides the man but maintains the myth.

A magician. Magic is all I have; music is illusory, pure and luring and simple and complicated and perfect. A way to survive, a means to be something other than empty. To drown in the gaping holes that echo so loudly.

But throughout this trickery, time has warred against me. Me strength, replaced by inept weakness. Me bones, bristled and bleached. It was the touring, albums, masses of fans, masses of girls, TV show appearances, red carpets, champagne and money. Even the bloody Queen herself. But...somewhere, in the midst of this chaos and creation, I lost John Lennon. Well, what little bit of him I had ever called my own. But I'll get 'round to that topic in a tick.

Everything I say now acts as a pseudo-goodbye letter. The sort of thing a man writes before he breathes that last breath. Quite macabre, I'm aware. I'm a man tripping over the ledge but somehow, I'm rational and sad that it–everything–has come down to a few simple words.

Understand, I wear no outward signs of these inner demons. Me surface is reflective and smooth — there lay no tells of scarring. I smile when I need to (which is quite often), I laugh when it's called upon...I pretend. I act. I react.

But...No more. Unlike many others who become hapless victims of their own brand of crime, I am not tired of living. I'm merely exhausted of living without. Without peace, without wholeness, but most of all, without John.

You see, it was never supposed to be like this. The fame, money, and girls, yes. Not this bleeding distance though; not the ice-cold performances or the illusions so exquisite one cannot tell where the legend separates from the mortal. When the world reappeared around John and I, I'm incapable of pinpointing, just as I cannot remember my days before him. Everything now is one and the same, connected by their disconnections.

Empathize with the fact that I've been living in torment and tease for nearly six years and I...don't want for it anymore. I've waged a bet too steep, against me own self, and payment is long overdue.

However, before I'm good and gone, I won't exit without telling the tales of woe and why. An end that results in angry wonderment left in me place is something I do not wish for. It leads to bitter resentment; I've lived long enough to know the effects death imposes upon the living.

John also knows how death rattles a person. Think of our mothers and the emptiness they've in their place.

When I consider them (our mums), it hurts for all the obvious reasons. Then I begin to think on a much deeper level; I project and reflect and interpret how best I believe situations may turn out. But the truth is, I don't know how me leaving will result for Lennon, I can do little else but imagine. Perhaps though, if ghosts exist, I might have the chance to see.

Or maybe I've gone and lost me fucking mind. With thoughts like that, it's really no wonder the direction I'm headed.

†

"Fuck off, Macca." John barked at Paul's plead, never giving it time enough to process the tone. Lennon didn't care this morning; head pounding from Cynthia's breaking heart and two empty bottles of booze, John scathingly ignored the younger Beatle. Favoring a 6-strong acoustic, the rhythm guitarist all but shooed McCartney away as he absently plucked at the strings.

Almost all away.

Paul flopped down on top of the nearest amplifier and crossed his legs. "No Johnny, I-" his speech choked, cut off abruptly by the look in John's eyes; amber orbs lit aflame with a familiar fury, McCartney swallowed back a rising lump as he stared back at Lennon. And then came the deluge: "Paul, you listen mate. I don't have time for your bloody whining this morn', right? So piss off, ye wanker." John stood up, pulling a red-tipped fag from between the fingers of his stunned companion.

With so little time left, Paul didn't – couldn't – let his agony go. With a raised voice, "I don't fuckin' care about your shit morning Lennon, anymore than you care about me, but you're going to listen today. If it's the last bleedin' thing I do."

The truth behind those words would come to haunt Lennon. Decades would be spent wondering how different things might have been, had only John paused and considered his actions beforehand. But that was neither here nor there.

John, walking now, halted mid-stride. Two shoulders tightened as they lifted up, touching his earlobes. Paul's serious tone was downright haunting. John turned to face the younger man; gaining a better look, the hungover musician tried to gauge where today's odd tantrum might lead. But Lennon saw only shadows there; dark, unforgiving hallows that lain beneath Paul's eyes. An unseen weight to Paul that John hadn't previously recognized struck the older band member in that moment.

"Paul–" John started, only to be cut off by George Martin's ill-timed announcement from the control room. A call for Lennon – Cynthia was on the telephone. She needed John...she always needed John.

An eerie silence stood between Lennon and McCartney, impregnated by the ghosts John had only just glimpsed. The phone was a million miles away but Cynthia's invisible presence cracked their reverie. Something at home–a problem with Julian, maybe. A problem of matter.

Paul was standing a few feet from John, waiting in silence. It was all he could do to remain there, as he felt the rabid beats of his heart take over. John had seen, had noticed...something.

Yet the older man did not act as McCartney had originally planned for. Paul resigned himself, the cause lost – "go John, we'll bitch together sometime later, you and I."

Paul's hands were dug into worn pockets of the blazer he, only seconds ago, slipped on. Turned toward the rear hallway now, Paul was intent on leaving. There was no more work to be done in this place. Long sought after answers were given by John's crippled quiet; Lennon obviously suspected a thing unseen but had stood there. John said and did nothing.

It truly was the beginning of an end.

As Paul stepped out into the light of day, the crisp London air met him, intent as it was to join him on the short walk home.

Back inside the studio, John still hadn't found cause to move. He watched Paul leave – his tongue swollen with words of concern. He couldn't do anything or speak or think...save for that look on Paul's face. Something was off; a wrong so terrible John could do little but fear the future.

Martin appeared beside him suddenly, "John?" It broke the internal reveler, his head shaking away deep, paralyzing murmurs from within.

"Mm, yeah? Wha'? What is it George?" John's voice sounded blank and scared, a confusion Martin noted instantly.

"Well...Cyn was on the phone but I've since told her you'd ring her back. What happened, John, you look like you've gone and seen a ghost.." George placed a hand atop one of Lennon's shoulders as he said this. A token of comfort, a display of worry.

 _Affection_ – the same affection John hadn't shown Paul.

Mumbling at first, the older musician couldn't understand what John was trying to say. Martin cut in–"speak up John, what's got you so out of sorts?"

At George's question John bent forward, palms unsteadily holding himself up on weak knees. Air came in spurts; he sounded out of breath as, "Paul-Pa...I think somethin's wrong, George. H-he didn't look or sound right." John fought waves of anxiety as they primed to bowl him over.

Martin knelt down, eyes looking skyward so as to connect with John's. _Connect_.

"Shit, George, I think I fucked up," John coughed, his voice sad, frightened.

"Fucked up how?" Martin's tone was apologetic but not for himself. He loved these boys – these men – and any problems they shared, he shared from the sidelines.

John finally met the floor; falling down the Beatle covered his face in his hands. "I think...I think Paul and I are...I think it's over, George."

Martin wasn't entirely sure of the context but didn't stop the man from speaking secrets of the heart. So he nodded, quietly listening on.

"I...we never told anyone, never wanted to, but he and I, we..were.." John stopped, eyes twitching by overworked nerves. A hidden truth that lasted nearly a decade was only now having its great reveal. But at the cost what, he wasn't certain yet.

George placed a hand on Lennon's forearm, "John, you don't have to say anything. I believe...we all knew to some extent, but it wasn't our secret to tell. And it still isn't. Keep it to yourself, mate. But tell me why you think it's ...done for." The older of the two cleared his throat.

"The look, George, the look Paul gave me was ...hallowed. Void. And I? I just fuckin' stood there, said not a bloody fuckin' thing." Martin didn't know the right words like he would know the right song notes, but his heart was a part of the Beatles, no matter the problem.

Though that didn't stop Martin from trying, "maybe you didn't say anything because subconsciously you want things between Paul and you to end? Maybe it's reached that time?"

John's head shot up, sight zeroed in on the older man's face. Incredulity there, but...not surprise. "I don't even know what to say to that, Martin. Why...why would I want things to end or...stop? It doesn't make any fuckin' sense."

George went on, "John, you've both grown so much, successful – hell lad, you have a kid and a wife – have had for a while now. Maybe you're tired of trying to keep this affair going?"

John processed this, mind attempting to wrap itself around the notion that _somehow_ Martin was right.

George hastily stood, a hand held out to help John do the same. "Go see 'im, Lennon. Go talk. I'll tell the others you'll both be back here in a few hours."

John half-smiled. He would find time later to process how blindly accepting Martin had been. In times like these, men like he and Paul weren't welcomed with open arms. Not ever.

Brown-suede jacket draped over his shoulders, John patted George's arm and left the same way Paul had.

†

One knock, two. Three, then four. No answer and no cat calls from Paul's bedroom window granting John entrance. Lennon circumvented Paul's no-admittance by hopping the gate – a regular test of unfaltering youth – and arrived at Paul's door in record time.

John thought of the time since Paul left – thirty-five or so minutes. Perhaps Paul never went home?

John decided a peek through Cavendish's side windows was in order; hoping to catch a glimpse of the younger man, Lennon maneuvered through the overgrown brush and cupped his hands against a chilly pane of glass. John peered inside and saw...nothing.

A relief came to him, like summer waves crashing onshore. No tsunami's this time. Though John wasn't entirely certain as to why he felt such ease; where was Paul if not here?


	2. Not like you

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's get worse before it gets better. Maybe.

1959–

John worked his way up the rustic drain pipe. Nothing new, nothing forbidden and yet still exciting all the same. He entered through the worn window, hands scraping along bubbled wood that decay long ago set in motion; it felt like home to him, being there in Paul's room. Sneaking about, wandering aimlessly like the nomad he claimed to be.

In some ways Lennon always believed himself a man without a real home – but in the end that wasn't wholly true. Or fair. Broken maybe but still, there was a roof above John's head every night if he so chose. Not to mention a lifetime replacement mum in Mimmi.

Laid out horizontally on Paul's bed, John quietly waited; he heard water slowly draining down the McCartney household tub. It was calming, pleasing. Paul would soon appear wrapped in a towel and John could. Well, he _could_. If he wanted to.

John had known, without Paul saying as much, about the affections the younger man held for the other. Though Lennon never thought of a man in _that_ sense before, he wasn't put off by Paul's predicament. _Paul's predicament._ That's what Lennon identified it as. It was easier to see it as Paul's problem that needing dealing with versus something John actually had a hand in, so to speak.

Adjusting to the truth wasn't easy at first; there were times John had a rough go with understanding but ultimately in the end it _was_ just Paul. Just McCartney, his mate. After a year or so of knowing though, the details became less of import to John. It simply didn't matter to Lennon that Paul, a raging ladies man for all intents and purposes, reserved a secret longing for John's person. John entertained that there might even be a longing deeper than mere physical attraction.

From the hallway came a low rustling of sorts. By his viewpoint on the bed, John saw the doorknob turn to open. More sounds: a creak indicated there was weight being exerted onto the wood.

Unsurprisingly, it was Paul sauntering into the room, towel wrapped loosely around skinny, swaying hips. His hair sat unkempt, jet-black and dripping wet. He looked...

John noticed something he hadn't seen before right then, sensed something in the air that immediately set off a delicate balance. A balance he was used to – being in control of his emotions, his wants, his needs. People needed _him_ , wanted _him_. It was never the other way around.

Well, not outwardly at least. But here, now, things were changing.

While John was lost to some type of inner reverie, Paul stood unmoving, unsure of John and his own nakedness. His awkward actions told as much: shuffling feet couldn't find peace while twisting fingers embedded into the fabric that lain against wet skin.

Lennon watched him, making quiet decisions without the other's acquiescence. Without Paul so much as knowing.

John couldn't know the effect his actions would cause in future times. Like a butterfly flapping its wings, the emotional ripples would carry through the years like rising, churning tsunamis. Violent and uncaring. A rolling destruction of hurt and abandon.

John was unquestionably dangerous while Paul was none the wiser.

+

"What're ye doin' 'ere, Lennon?" Words annoyed and unwanted-like, as though John were intruding, Paul grumbled at the other. While this wasn't necessarily the case, McCartney was all too aware of his personal situation where John was concerned. If this kept up—John's piercing gazes and too-long pauses—he might blush, he might tell a thing that wasn't to be revealed in times like these. Worse, Paul might fight away chance from fear of rejection.

It all lead to a place where John might see through the boyish games; a truth Paul wasn't ready to claim.

Lennon stood up in a rush of movement, legs propelling him off of the mattress and directly towards Paul.

Enough waiting.

"I'm doin' 'ere for practice ye daft git. Get some pants on an' join me, will ye?" John poked Paul's left rib as he said this. The touch lingered longer than the length of a friendly gesture.

They were too close. They were much _too close_. Paul expelled a laugh, a nervous sound that came on too quick and ended too soon. "Right, give a bloke a min' yeah?"

John didn't move; amber eyes were fixed, focused intently on Paul's. _'What if?'_ , Lennon mulled. But no. No. They're breath was too swift, their hearts racing too feverishly fast.

John broke an unwritten rule: he kissed his best friend.

+

_I can't believe this is happening, I'm...I'm not. I didn't think I was. Am I?'_

I begin to question me motives — question meself in this most puzzling of times. I'm here, but I don't feel as though I am standing upon me own two feet. Paul is...yes, he is kissing me back. Right now, in his room. He's naked. Jesus fuck, he's naked and pressed against me.

I realize then...it _is_ true. Paul wants for me.

However one fact remains the same: I reached for him. I showed an attraction I hadn't known was there. I made the contact we're entangled into.

He must think I want the same. He believes in-I don't know if...maybe I-

...his lips, bloody hell they're right soft. He's warm but the feeling of small, cool drops of water falling from his hair is intoxicating. He smells clean and like a man and fuck, I carn't believe my hands are wrapped around a body that molds like my own. I'm not like him. I carn't possibly–

There's nothing to stop us though, if not me own conscience.

Me tongue is tasting Paul's–he's sweet and kept—clean and giving of himself. I find that meself enjoying it.

Why do I enjoy it so much?

It's come time to end this. Thoughts of evil words and wrong, regretful actions and why-WHY would I ever hurt me best mate? Why would I cause him pain–

Because I'm John fucking Lennon and I'm **no** poof.

I push him away but just as confusingly pull him close again. If appearances are to be believed, I want him – feels as though a fire is rising deep inside of me; the pulse of me body is undeniable. His affection, his touches are full of soul and heart — I know then that Paul would follow me to the gates of hell. I need only ask.

But by the look Paul gives me, I've earned more than his trust–he's given me his heart.

"To the bed, son," I mumble, our foreheads pressed together. My face is covered with tiny water droplets that fall from his onyx-colored hair. We move along. He's rushing, he's urgent to experience this. He's ready and excited and thinks I'm going to–

_'Will I? Surely I carn't be a man that fucks his best mate. Bloody fuck no.'_

I need to end what I've impulsively started. Paul may come to hate me guts but I–

What if he truly despises me after? I don't know if I'll be able to handle-goddammit. I carn't have me mate hatin' me. No matter how me reputation may suffer.

I watch his eyes go black as he sits-no, Paul laid down. His bath towel means less now to him, by the height its lifted on one thigh. I return my gaze to the north, following his line of sight — I'm too afraid to seek any lower. Again at least. I don't think.

I extend the length of me body onto his. It's awkward at first but this is all part of a hip-shot plan. Either I go through with it or...I go through with it. Both options leaves much to be questioned.

I watch as McCartney settles beneath me. His body is a little longer than mine but not by much. _Fucker._ I feel his hands tug at me shirt. I've been here dozens of times with girls but never. Not ever with. But now.

I take a leap of faith and press my groin into his–I'm not there yet, well maybe a little but he. He's ready and I hate meself a little more with every second that passes between us. Around us. I'm torn, confused. Acting without thought. I think of smoking a fag and pulling on a bird at the local bar. I think of playing me guitar. I think of anything to stave away the pain I know will greet me soon. And that's when I finally decide.

I'm a right wanker for all I've done here.

Paul's head lifts up and away from his pillow. His eyes close–I don't want them too close. Closing means he lov-

"Paul?" I breathe out, quiet, more quiet than I've ever been in me whole entire fuckin' life.

His eyes open again. Bloody 'ell they're round and bright and perfect; they search for answers without asking questions. I know the words will be painful – I don't want to hear him speak, not now.

I just have to–"I'm no bloody poof. Not like _you_. People like you get right dead, mate."

I close me eyes before his hurt can reach me stormed shores. I don't want to see it. I'm a goddamn coward bastard, I know. I'm no saint. Lucky he knows this much about me.

I'm off him now and standing, looking down but not at him. I see the floorboards and a pair of mismatched socks and wonder what color me own are today – I carn't remember any details before I arrived in this room. A room too small now to keep us two.

"Get dressed Paul, we've got practice."

I say this and leave, never glimpsing that face. I carn't tell if I've lost me best bloke or if I've merely ended a false start. The fire's extinguished.

"Meet me outside when ye ready, princess." I bark these words like the dog I am, and they taste like used motor oil. I can only swallow back the pain of me inept mistreatment—of the situation and me own shame. I did what I did. It's done.

+

1959–

Seated in stunned silence, I throw the towel away from me and onto the floor. Me cares do not lie with wet garments or wooden boards. Not with naked abandoned skin either. I'm...what just happened to me?

John kissed me. He pulled _me_ in. I didn't make that decision, I didn't chose to–oh but it doesn't bloody fuckin' matter now. He's made it quite clear.

I hate the love me heart beats for him–that bastard fuck deserves none if it. Shivering, I barely notice much else now but the embarrassment. The shame.

Me heart is a physical thing that takes up space where a real man might keep truth and booze and his lust for women. I'm merely an impersonation of what John is. What's worse? He knows this now. I carn't possibly explain away what's only just happened between us.

I'm close to panic. I've been fooled. By John.

So what does this make Lennon? Oh God, he knows now.

He knows.  
John knows now.

+

Early 1966–

I make it back to me house without distraction. Me hands are chilled by the spring air; it's not cold exactly but not warm yet either...me body feels colder than it should be. Perhaps it's a way of speaking of the future. Cold and dead and gone.

Nevertheless.

I sit down on the couch in me living room as though I'm a man from another time, another world. I don't feel like "The Cute Beatle" or a member of a famous band. I don't sense a spirit of belonging to any form of physical place. I don't feel like Paul McCartney nor do I recall what that man was supposed to stand for. What he might have believed in. That's drifted on already.

I've lost the battle. I've become something more and something less all in one symbiotic moment. An experience of the false truth I've called my life for nearly ten years has shown me things. It's horrifying and cracked...now though, I've no choice but to accept it.

I let it in — I've reached the end of this run. There's no more for me to do, no more for me to try. My transition will be quick.

I lift an image of John from the top of my side table. He's twenty-three in this frame frozen in time. Things were ...better then. I look at this image, my thumbs running circles over his face. I feel his hands intertwined with mine, shadows keeping our secrets safe. White walls never betrayed us back then. Only he betrayed us. I loved him then as I love him still. That is my curse.

I'll carry little with me person but this — this is the John that will light the way.

I reach for a pad of blank white writing paper.


	3. The game.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's jumpy on purpose. :)

1966–

John rocked up and down on the balls of his heels, hands anxiously digging deeper into the front pockets of his slacks. He'd been standing outside of Paul's Cavendish home for the better part of an hour, his mind and thoughts venturing deeply into chasms he never dared dream.

_'Should I break in? Should I knock...again? Should I scale the walls and throw meself through the bathroom window? ...is he alright in there?'_

Lennon went over and over the multitude of ways he might draw McCartney's attention, but in the end he found himself doing little more than pacing back and forth. Frozen to immobility, John realized then that his mind was too overwhelmed to do much else...and this was terrifying.

++

Paul completed his note and placed the spent pen on top of his end table. He watched as it rolled onto its side, the black cap keeping it from plunging off and into the beyond. He considered visiting the coast line once more before taking his own plunge; the taste of the sea, the smell of the ocean – Paul closed his eyes to the imagination, reveling in memories he'd never experience again.

He thought of Liverpool, his mum and dad, Mike, and then the guys – John, George and Ringo. He smiled when images of their faces flashed from better, happier times.

But...John. Paul's thoughts lingered on that name as one hand still held the black and white image he'd since pulled from the frame. He wanted to remember Lennon as he was in the photograph: open and loving, giving and, more importantly, there. John _needed_ Paul back then, in the day and in the night. The older of the two, John, had shown a deeper vulnerability during those early days, and that- _that's_ what McCartney was clinging so desperately to now. Lest it be in vain.

A forgiving tear slowly fell down Paul's cheek as his fingers let slip the photo. Without any proof of sound, the picture floated quietly on its journey to the floor. Laying there atop the carpet, John's captured expression was pointed skyward, the face half-smiling up at McCartney; it was torturous. A spike of pain rushed through Paul's chest in that moment, the result of it taking his breath away. Stretching his left hand across his heart, head dipping low to stave off any residual panic, Paul silently demanded the pain to lessen. Delay was not an option at this point.

There was an ache: a deep, bottomless hurt that had grown over these last few years, and this – here, now – all of this was a culmination of how difficult a cross it had become to bear. Especially _John's_ cross. It was a dreadful heavy thing, weighing Paul down in nearly every sense. But it was familiar and so it was loved, fiercely, for being all that it had turned out to be...and all that it was capable of.

There were many a days end where Paul had actually believed he was the unsuspecting victim of Stockholm's Syndrome. Lennon was bad for Paul, yes, but the man was everything McCartney had ever desired. And so all the puzzle pieces fit, hell, they damn near put themselves in place.

Shaking his head violently, Paul chased the demons of doubt and reason away. Whatever had lead him to this precise minute was what mattered; everything had a purpose, no matter how terrible the outcome. Every fight, every touch, every moment shared between the both of them had lead Paul to lie beneath the decks of a sinking ship. The water was nearly there...

Paul, realizing then he was as close to peace as a man in his predicament might get, reached for the weapon that...would.

He wanted quick and easy, wanted non-mess – a token of consideration to the one lucky enough to discover his deviations. Drugs were out of the question – he wouldn't be _that_ statistic – a knife was too ...well, too much, thus McCartney went with the most unlikely of ways. He hoped it'd be as painless as possible, but not all medical studies at the time were succinct to give purchase to such a wish. Either way, he had done his homework.

He lifted the instrument to his neck, thumb through the end loop hole, index and middle fingers poised below the plunger.

++

John had reached his breaking point. Standing with squared shoulders, he had both of his hands on either side of Paul's door, fingers tapping rigorously on the painted wood. Lennon wanted in but was afraid of what he'd find. He wanted answers but was cowardly refusing to ask the questions.

_'What if Paul really wanted to call it quits with me? What if he wanted to leave the band because of how cruel I've been? Though...have I truly been that cruel?'_

John pondered on and on until a new emotion rose within him: anger. It came on quickly and flashed red-hot, as if inside of his head went off a grenade. Emotional shrapnel exploded throughout his mind – the rage boiling over in a matter of seconds.

He realized, after the fury subsided slightly, that he was charging at a brick wall; revving and redlining over what would most likely turn out to be nothing. So he did the only thing he could do and decided to walk back to the studio and give McCartney a ring. Would it have been easy to break into Paul's house? Yes, but John accepted that he wasn't ready to face the consequences, anger or naught. He knew he could have done things plenty differently over the years but hell, he wasn't perfect and neither was Paul.

So John turned away and in a jerky, stubborn motion, left.

++++

1963–

"You sang yer bloody heart out tonight, mate," John commented, his lips wrapped around a half-burned cigarette. Seldom was it that John complimented the bassist, so Paul's face immediately shone with surprise and returned happiness with a smile, "why thank you Lennon, you weren't half bad yeself."

John took the moment to throw a sweaty, used hand towel towards Paul in mock retort, their welcomed laughter filling a light, post-concert air. It was hot and crowded in their dressing room, but the experience was all that mattered, and they – the four of them – enjoyed it thoroughly. Sweaty or not.

These were exciting times in the life of The Beatles, and John and Paul were at the peak where their relationship was concerned. A partnership that was on the cusp of producing stayed greatness, yes, but also for the monumental levels of heat shared between the hotel linens. This was something neither of the men, at the time, fully understood – they merely lived in the moment. They didn't know or ever expect things to change between them and why would they? They were kings.

Brian entered the room just then, his hands waving up above his head to gain the attention of all occupants. There was to be no rest for the wicked: "Hey, listen up lads. We've got to be packed and ready to head on out to the airport in two hours, so I suggest you lot get-a move on!"

John imitated Brian as the older man spoke, the others paying little to no mind. It was routine Lennon, not harmful or hurtful but just...John.

"Alright ye merry gentlemen, I'll be in me room, packing a suitcase for the big ol' jet plane." John's words came out cockney'd and smart, his lips purposefully extended out to over-enunciate the jest. Paul smirked at him from a place of pure affection and nodded when John motioned for the younger Beatle to follow him to their joint room.

They walked silently beside one another as they waded through the long hallways, their feet and bodies tired from such a demanding schedule. Yet these two, nor the others, would ever complain out loud, oh no, they willfully trudged on when the going got rough. This night was no exception.

Arriving at the door to their shared room, John and Paul entered and basked in the absolute silence of their surroundings. No screaming birds, no industry personnel to bother them – it was blissful. At some point in the recent past someone had the swell idea of setting up a circulating fan, its spinning blades set to please with their high revolutions; the cool air that hit their heated faces was met with fond appreciation almost instantly.

"It's right hot out today," Paul commented, sliding the black blazer down off of his shoulders. He hung it on a claw-like coat rack spine that was sat off in the corner, always mindful to keep things tidy. Lennon followed suit but proceeded to throw his onto the floor, not paying a single care towards where it ended up. Paul smiled at this – typical John. Lots of typical John today, in fact. The thought warmed Paul's already steamed heart and this affection was evident in the way he was looking towards the other. While it wasn't on the borderline of being odd, McCartney had lost himself to a momentary reverie, his thoughts drifting to the night before last.

"Eh, Paul? Ye alright there son?" John asked, his hand waving back and forth in front of Paul's eyes.

It broke his focus and so Paul nodded, finding his throat dry from the lack of speaking in too long a time. Or singing, whichever.

"'Mmm fine," McCartney mumbled, turning his back quickly to John and walking into their bathroom to begin packing his toiletry items and other related essentials.

John sat down on the edge of the mattress, his hands squeezing the cheap hotel coverlet. "Hey Macca, how long did Eppy say we 'ad?" John called, fingers having moved onto working the knot of his tie. Daydreams of play began to wander about his consciousness...

Paul hung his head out of the doorway and bit the inside of his lip before, "'bout two hours."

_'That's plenty of time.'_

John didn't move from his place on the bed but rather waited for Paul to emerge fully from the loo. It was Lennon's turn to watch the younger man while in the midst of his own concentrated stupor; but packing was serious business for those that traveled nearly non-stop, so McCartney hardly noticed the intense gaze aimed at his person.

"C'mere, son," John spoke, voice above a whisper. Kicking his boots aside and away from his onyx-clad feet, he flexed his toes and dug a few into the soft carpet, legs bouncing slowly. Through half-lidded eyes John could see Paul damn near melt at the tone and obvious implications behind Lennon's words. John loved the power he held over McCartney, even if he never came right out and said such a thing. Which he wouldn't do. Well, not right now at least. Would he?

Paul approached and stood in front of John, arms at his side, unprepared for what was to come next.

"Remember night before last, Paul?"

Paul nodded, "mmm, I do indeed, yea."

"I bet you're thinking that I'll do that for you again, aren't ye? That I'll"–John stood up then, his nose only centimeters from Paul's–"run me mouth down and over that lovely sweet spot between your cock an' ass while you beg me for more."

Paul couldn't help the sound or rush of air that escaped from his lungs; eyes now closed, he waited on John to speak, paying attention only to the heat of John's breath so close to him now. Those words triggering _that_ memory left Paul drowning in non-contact with an arousal that was damn near painful already.

John laughed, "...but I'm not. I'm not gonna do that. What I am gonna do is this: I'm gon' make you beg me...to touch me. Ye understand? Yer not allowed to bloody touch me with those queer hands unless I give you the say-so."

Paul opened his eyes as the confusion of Lennon's statement set in. Had John just called _him_ queer after mentioning the almost rim-job from a couple evenings ago? It didn't make a lick of sense. "Johnny?" Paul whispered, having just taken a step backwards.

"You heard me, get down on yer knees and beg me..." Lennon raised a single eyebrow...hinting towards a new genre of playfulness Paul hadn't seen prior.

"You want me ...to get down and beg you...to touch you with me own hands?" Paul pinched the bridge of his nose, unsure as to if he were killing the moment or adding to John's fantasy of control. Because clearly, that was what was going on.

John huffed and flopped back down onto the bed. Exasperation set in as the spark between began to flame out. "Forget it ya daft git, just pack it up." The words came out biting, bitter-like

Paul's expression changed from one of hopeful anticipation to that of a man who's dreams were only just crushed by the hands of another. "What's all this about, Lennon? You wanna play sex games? We can do that, but don't go callin' me a queer not ten seconds after talking about the fuck we had. That's just cruel."

There came that laugh again, and John just nodded, "fuck off. 'Can't-take-a-joke-Pauly,' shown' up tonight doing the same old song and dance."

"Oh come off it, John. Now yer jus' be right nasty. What's gotten into ye? Thought we had a moment there for a second. What happened?" Paul's questions ran along the line of what Lennon would call "don't fucking go there," and his temper flared as a result of it.

"Nothin' happened, for chrissake! Y-you should see the look on your face sometimes–sometimes when I jus' say yer fuckin' name, son, it's all over for you. You really do got it that bad for me, don't ya?" John said the words and felt his stomach lurch; as a defense mechanism, John would oftentimes go out of his way to hurt Paul in order to see how far he could push the man. If Paul ran off, then John's suspicions of self ineptitude and inadequacy were confirmed. If not? Well then it was only a game to see how much McCartney could take until he did run off.

John knew he would play those cards until he was dead. He also knew it was a lose-lose where the outcomes were concerned.

And he hated that. Loathed it, really.

There was no one else in this world John cared for or loved more, but Lennon was who he was and no man or love would change that. It was merely a fact. An ingrained-from-birth fact. No matter how often Paul seemed to never reach a limit with him, or never willingly walk away. It was almost enough to convince John but...no. The doubt remained.

"Ya know what Johnny? I do. I do have it _that bad_ for you." A pause before, "but go piss off if you think what you're doing to me here–what you've always done to me sin-since then–is okay. I'm not in the mood."

John stood and followed Paul before the younger man could exit the suite. "Awe, I'm sorry, ye know? I don't mean it."

Paul stopped there, bags in hand and head down. His shoulders dipped as the anger left him.

He turned back and caught John's gaze. He would stay. Paul would always stay.

And so the game continued.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Forgive me for the criminal amount of time between updates. I wouldn't be surprised if you guys didn't expect me to finish, but I will, dammit*, I will!
> 
> *anger directed towards me, not you. (It's not you, it's me.)

**Author's Note:**

> Posting here for posterity's sake. Originally found on McLennonLand (Livejournal) :)
> 
> I know it's macabre...and it's get more so. Please no flaming.


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